


Implicit Intentions

by dreamsofdramione



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Hogwarts Professors, Professor Draco Malfoy, Professor Hermione Granger, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:21:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22702177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamsofdramione/pseuds/dreamsofdramione
Summary: When words can't properly express the way they feel, Hermione and Draco rely on body language. Unfortunately, sometimes communication is key.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 48
Kudos: 346
Collections: Strictly Dramione Valentine’s Day Fic Exchange Fest





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullymurphy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullymurphy/gifts).



> Prompt Words: Professor, Lingerie, Snapped, Anonymous
> 
> Favorite Tropes: Coworkers, friends to lovers, gift exchange
> 
> My contribution to the Strictly Dramione Valentine's Fest

* * *

**Part 1**

* * *

**February 14th**

It’s all a mess of pinks and whites and reds, hearts and stars, and all the things that make Hermione truly hate this sham of a holiday. It’s fake candy, and fake smiles, and fake cards, and fabrications of anything that might mean something if thought about on any other day of the year. 

The Great Hall is dressed in swaths of thick, vibrant fabrics with equally bright balloons and dancing streamers hung from every possible surface. Little pink vases dot the scattered tables as charmed hearts float up higher and higher just to pop, replaced by another round seconds later. 

She’s seen a dance in two in her time as Arithmancy professor. Typically, she stomachs the overzealous students in their pursuit of one another without even batting an eye. 

But today is different. 

Today is Valentine’s Day. 

Today is also the day she learned that another one of her former classmates announced their engagement. While she _is_ happy for them, truly she is, the news is one more nail in the coffin of her own loneliness, another tick down in the statistics of the dwindling pool of her peers who can claim themselves single. 

First, it’d been Harry and Ginny, rushing off to get married shortly after the dust settled from the final battle. Neville and Luna were next, just a few short years later. Then came Percy, marrying Pansy Parkinson of all people, in a surprise ceremony marking the one and only Weasley wedding _not_ held at The Burrow. 

Others followed suit over the last five years, finding a partner and falling easily into wedded bliss. Not that Hermione had any misconceptions about married life. No, Ginny filled her in on the finer points of arguments over chores and who was supposed to go to the shops that week. But even in the midst of their petty spats, she saw a sense of happiness she one day hoped to claim for herself. Watching her friends grow into the people they were always meant to be with a partner by their side makes her yearn for a connection to call her own. 

She has someone. Of sorts. It isn’t anything serious, by their own admission, but it is something that passes the time and fulfills her physical needs. That’s all it is, though. Purely physical. Convenient. An arrangement they made a few months prior that Hermione tries to remind herself _is not_ and _can never truly be_ serious. But sometimes she thinks that maybe… 

Well, she thinks a lot of things that don’t matter much because she _is_ still single for all intents and purposes. 

Neville and Luna are dancing in the middle of the crowd, him a head above the tallest seventh year, and her not much taller than the other students. Most of the professors are gathered in clusters along the edge of the room, chatting amongst themselves and keeping a watchful eye for any potential mishaps. Hermione, on the other hand, is sitting off to the side, manning the drink table and mulling over the choices she’s made that have led her to this exact moment. 

Maybe if she’d never returned to school after the war she would have met someone already. Maybe if she’d chosen a career that didn’t require her to spend most of her time at the school instead of putting— 

A small slip of parchment floats over her shoulder, tickling her jaw for just a second before she grabs it. Holding it under the table, and hopefully out of sight, Hermione uncurls it and reads the short note. 

_Can’t wait for tonight. xx_

To anyone else, it may look anonymous. There is no signature attached and the penmanship is flawless. If she didn’t know better herself, she’d think it to be the product of a charmed quill. But she knows that impeccable handwriting, knows every loopy letter and precise dot belong to the one person she’s anxiously waiting to see. She stashes the note in the pocket of her robes, knowing it’ll end up with the rest, in that little box in her trunk she’ll never admit to having. 

“Do you mind, Granger?” That same bored drawl she’d once detested snaps her out of her musings. 

“Not at all. Help yourself.” She smiles, despite herself, and the way his lips curl in response makes her stomach flip. 

Pouring himself a cup of red juice she’s sure will stain any unfortunate piece of fabric it touches, he glances up at her again before turning towards the crowd. “How much longer do you think we have to stay?” If she didn’t recognize his voice so well, she wouldn’t have even realized he was talking to her. 

Trying her best to remain outwardly unaffected, Hermione purses her lips as she leans against the table beside him. “Hmm... I’d say an hour. Tops.”

The way his lips twist at both ends, his perfectly straight teeth gleaming bright white in the sea of red, makes the gentle warmth tingling her cheeks flare into what feels like a fire. She’s sure that colour scheme isn’t doing her any favours. 

“I’ve been known to be patient.” The glint in his eyes suggests otherwise and she can’t help but laugh. 

Once upon a time, she thought she was scared of Malfoy. Back in school, he was a git who mercilessly teased her and her friends and everyone or anyone who spoke out against him. 

But the war had changed them all in both small and large ways. 

Now, Hermione can’t stand the silence, reminded of all the nights she’d spent on the run, worrying that even the smallest noise would alert a Snatcher to her location. Even now, when a loud noise sounds, she finds her hand gripping her wand and her chest heaving with the effort of each laboured breath. 

Draco, too, bears scars—both inside and out. While her own cursed carving was healed by a mediwitch shortly after the war, the permanently stained reminder of his allegiance has faded, but never fully vanished. He, too, jumps at unexpected noises. He says that some nights, like the first that changed so many things between them, he wanders the empty halls just to remind himself that the beacon of hope that Hogwarts has always claimed to be still stands. It’s sentient and with memories of the battles fought on its ground, reminders carved and blasted into the stones, but firm nonetheless. 

“I’d better make my rounds. See ya later.”

Hermione nods and tries to focus on the feel of the parchment as it crinkles in her pocket, willing time to pass quicker. 

* * *

**February 14th**

Students are still meandering around the space when Hermione checks the time. With a little wave to the Headmistress, she slips out into the hall, hopefully unnoticed. 

Winding through the corridors as the echo of laughter fades with each step is comforting. It’s a reminder that life still exists years after so many were lost. 

Every day is stained with reminders of the past. Working in the same place where she fought so much of the war was a conscious choice. One she hadn’t made lightly. But being at Hogwarts and focusing all of her energy on a younger generation who have never known the horrors of children fighting a battle even adults couldn’t win is something she feels proud of. Educating young witches and wizards fulfills her in a way she’s never known. 

By the time she reaches the door to her room, the tinkling laughter is no more than a joyful whisper, muted by the distance and so quiet she almost can’t hear it at all. A flick of her wrist unlocks the door, and she’s so lost in her own thoughts that she almost misses the sound of shoes snapping against the stones in the hall. Before she can close her door, pale fingers grip the edge and pull back just enough for Draco to slip through, shutting it carefully as he eases into her room. 

Without preamble, he takes the two steps between them, slipping the tips of his fingers along the curve of her jaw as he leans down to meet her halfway. 

His lips aren’t what she’d expected at all. His kiss isn’t either. It’s firm yet soft, slow yet needy, and every move he makes serves a purpose. The way his tongue curls along her own says he needs this as much as she does. The way his hands drift down her ribs and curve around her hips says he’s missed this, too. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day.” There’s a hint of snark behind the causal words, an air of sarcasm in the arch of his brow. His breath smells like the apple tarts down at the dance and she can’t help but smile when he leans his forehead against her own. She knows it means _nothing,_ but her pulse still skips when he says it, and just for a moment, she allows herself to imagine otherwise.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, really?” Smoothing her hands over the pressed lapels of the Muggle suitcoat he’d worn for the dance, she thinks again that he looks rather dashing. “You hate holidays.”

“I do.” His lips dip to hers and whatever question was poised on the tip of her tongue is swept away. 

Draco’s chest is hard under her palms, firm and solid and real in a way very few other things are. Sliding higher, she feels the tension melt from his shoulders as her hands press against the cut of his still buttoned collar. Deft fingers untie the knot in his Slytherin tie, and as she throws it to the side, she wonders if he’d notice if she kept it. 

These meetings aren’t about small talk. They serve one purpose, and Hermione knows that, but sometimes…

When his hands cup the backs of her thighs, she lets him lift her up, and they make the short journey to her bed in seconds flat. He’s already pushing off her outer robes as she unbuttons his shirt, and by the time she’s down to nothing more than the lacy green lingerie set she hoped would catch his eye, he’s equally as bare. It does cause him to pause, his eyes skating over every newly exposed inch of her supple flesh. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she whispers, feeling more exposed than she has the countless times before without a stitch of cloth between them. 

The wolfish grin splitting his cheeks lets her know her choice in undergarments has hit its mark. By the time his mouth finds hers again, she’s smiling, too.

Trying to remember every moment, Hermione closes her eyes as she focuses on the paths his hands take around her curves. They slip and slide along the edges of the lace, twisting and turning with the flare of her hips before they trail to the point where she wants him the most. She’s pulsing with need by the time his fingers trace her most sensitive parts. 

She heard all of the rumours back in school and knows most gossip holds at least a kernel of truth. Though she doesn’t care to dwell on the past—his and hers alike—she thinks anyone who’s had the pleasure of being with Draco Malfoy knows he’s fluent in the language of touch. His tongue and fingers alike pluck and pull at the chords of want strumming to life in her veins. 

He’s a master of the craft and she thinks she may just be his favourite instrument. 

Practice does make perfect, after all. 

* * *

**February 14th**

Hermione thinks if it truly meant nothing, if _they_ truly meant nothing, he wouldn’t stay and bask in the afterglow of their coupling. It’s a relatively recent development. The time before tonight, he’d actually fallen asleep, and though she’d been tired too, she’d stayed awake awhile just to watch him breathe. 

Tonight he’s awake, but he’s still not moving. 

Tracing the same scar Harry gave him back in sixth year, she listens to the steady thump of his heart. It’s smooth in its cadance, soothingly steady and sure. 

She doesn’t say anything, too afraid that even the most mundane comment may break the trance they’ve fallen under, but she _wants_ to. She wants to ask what it means that he’s not scrambling for his clothes and rushing out the door. She wants to ask what it means that he seems perfectly content to stay, tracing the dip of her spine with his fingertips as she gently explores the map of marks splattered across his chest. She wants to ask what it means that he’s even here. Today. Now. 

But she doesn’t. 

Instead, she closes her eyes, pretending that tonight, of all nights, he belongs to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part 2**

* * *

**June 20th**

Drafo Malfoy has never been an affectionate wizard. Kissing was just something he didn’t do. As a child, all his parents would allow was a peck on the cheek, and even those were few and far between. As a student, he would have rather shagged a witch against a wall than participate in an outright snogging session. Pansy had always complied, raised in a similarly stale environment. 

But Granger is different.

Even the first night he found himself wrapped in her warm and welcoming heat, he knew she was different. For someone who relied so heavily on half truths and outright lies in his younger years, Draco has learned that lying to himself is useless. He can’t deny the way she moulds herself to him as though she’s meant to fill every inch of open space. There’s truth in the way her lips glide against his own, honesty in her openness as their tongues tangle and their breaths mingle. 

She’s open like a book with a worn out spine and notes clogging the margins, and he’s nothing if not a voracious reader. 

Swirling a glass of whisky and staring into its shallow depths, he thinks back to that first night when she found him wandering the halls not far from her room. 

He thinks about the flush that stained her cheeks and the mirth in her whisky coloured eyes. He thinks about his whispered words—it doesn’t have to mean anything—and he wishes he were a more honest person. 

Though hope is a dangerous concept for someone who has been afforded so little of it over the course of his life, Draco can’t help but hope that she can read between his lines, too. If he were a tome, and he almost laughs at the analogy when related to the feisty little bibliophile snuggled up and snoring softly in his arms, he hopes that she has taken the time to study the concepts and inferences buried in the text of each touch. 

* * *

**June 23rd**

Sun splashes through the crack in her curtains but Draco refuses to acknowledge he’s awake. Much like his dreams, her hair is splayed across the pillow next to him and her arm is slung over his chest as soft breaths seep from her parted lips. 

With the school year dwindling down to the final few days, he wants to linger in her warmth as long as possible. Returning to the drafty manor and hearing his own voice echo amongst the emptiness is not how he wants to spend his summer. His father’s in Azkaban and his mother is traveling, as she has been for the last few years, and though the manor is technically his family home, and as head of house, he’s expected to keep it up, he has no desire to step foot on the manicured lawn. There’s a posh flat in Wizard London with his name on the deed that he can call home for the next few months, but he plans to visit the old Black property in France, and hopes to catch up with his mother the first week. Other than that trip and a few meetings abroad with various Apothecaries for rare ingredients he’d like to have on hand for the following school year, he has no concrete plans beyond spending his days outside of the castle’s constricting walls. 

When she finally stirs, the sun is spilling into the room in earnest, caressing every corner and banishing the shadows that plagued those same spaces throughout the night. Still bare and pressed into the contours of his chest, she looks like an angel in the light of day. He has no such misconceptions, well aware she’s less than innocent and angelic, especially when her legs wrap around his lean hips and her moans seep into the thin skin of his neck, but there’s something to be said for the correlation. Nothing has ever been quite black and white in Draco’s life, and he thinks that maybe she is the kind of angel he just might need. She is heavenly, after all, in a rather sinful way. 

“G’morning.” 

Her voice is sleepy, sated, and his lips twist in response. “Morning.” 

Though he’s been awake for a while, he hasn’t said a word until now and the rough drag of his voice over the chords left raw from grunts and groans the night before make him clear his throat. Tufts of platinum are probably standing up in every direction, framing his face in a spiky halo, but she looks at him with a fire behind those big, brown eyes. She inches closer just a hair and he relishes in the feel of her body moulding to the curve of his side. He holds her like she’s a missing piece to his puzzle and everywhere their bodies meet is carved to slot into place. 

While most of their trysts start with clashing lips and hurried hips, this morning he sets a lazy, lackadaisical pace. Carding lean fingers through her mess of curls, he pulls her closer still, letting his lips and tongue coax her awake while the rest of his body hums to life. Already approaching fully erect when she slides her thigh across him, the dampness evident against his hip gets him the rest of the way there. 

Draco may hate mornings most days, but waking up to this wet and willing witch makes him think maybe they’re not so bad. 

The train leaves in a few days, taking them both, and all of the students, back to their homes for the summer, and he knows this won’t last—that it _can’t_ last. She deserves better, more, anyone who doesn’t have to live with the ghosts of his past haunting what life she may hope to have in the future. So, he takes his take, savouring the flavor of her kiss and the feel of her pliant flesh pressing against him. Sliding in easily, it all feels so right. Their mouths slant just so and their hands skip and slip and grip everywhere they can reach. 

It’s too much, too good. 

And of all the things Draco knows about life post war, the thing that he keeps reminding himself is that he, of all people, does not deserve good things. 

* * *

**July 10th**

_Just arrived back at my flat a few hours ago. Come over? The Floo is open. - D_

She’s been waiting for his owl for nearly two weeks but tonight she isn’t available. Hermione’s curls are already smoothed into passably managed waves and the only thing left to complete her outfit is the pair of heels dangling from her fingers. Eyeing the eagle owl still obviously waiting for a reply, she grabs a quill and parchment and scribbles a quick note.

_Can’t tonight. Tomorrow? - H_

* * *

**July 12th**

_My sheets are cold. Want to warm them up? - D_

_I promise Luna I’d have dinner at her house tonight. Rain check? - H_

_What about after? - D_

_I’ll be there. - H_

* * *

**July 12th**

The Floo spits her out with a cloud of green flames and particles of powder into an immaculate flat. Thankfully her heels are still safely at home because the first thing she sees is Draco sound asleep on the couch just a few feet away. Inching closer, she notices the stain of dark circles under his eyes and her heart hammers in her chest as she takes in the rest of his appearance. He’s still wearing dress robes from some function or another, his tie loosened around his neck but still securely there, as though he didn’t even have the energy to take it off the rest of the way before collapsing on the nearest piece of furniture and passing out. 

Every fiber of her being yearns to lie down next to him and fall asleep, if for nothing other than to hear the solid stroke of his heart against her cheek again. It’s been so long. But he looks so peaceful and the couch won’t hold her without being Transfigured. The jostle of the shift will surely alert him to her presence and she just can’t bring herself to wake him up. Not when he looks like he hasn’t slept a wink since she saw him last. 

Brushing his fringe back with a shaky finger, she whispers a quick good night and turns before her resolve to leave waivers. 

_You look so peaceful when you sleep. Owl me in the morning. - H_

* * *

**July 13th**

_You could have woken me up. - D_

_You looked tired. I’m free tonight. Come over? - H_

Their messages, though infrequent at best, are a lot like their typical conversations: short and concise. It’s not that Hermione doesn’t want to talk to him about things of substance, things like his plans and dreams and what he wants out of life, but the confines of their arrangement leave little room for things like that. 

_I’ll be there just after 10. - D_

* * *

**July 13th**

Hermione waits and waits, reads and writes and organizes her already polished lesson plans for the following year, but he doesn’t show. She’s checked her Floo no less than ten times to make sure it’s functioning properly. Every dish in her flat is clean, every blanket smoothed, and it isn’t until an hour after his scheduled arrival time that she begins to worry something might be wrong. 

_Running late? - H_

Reasonably, she can Floo to his flat and check on him, but some part of her thinks that’s a bad idea. She doesn’t want to appear over eager but he _had_ said he’d come and it wouldn’t be far fetched for her to check on him. 

Right?

Just as she picks up the vase of powder on her mantle, that same pristine owl raps at her window and she can’t open it fast enough. 

_Something came up. - D_

She shouldn’t be disappointed. Really. She shouldn’t. After all, the only constant between them is inconsistency. But that logic doesn’t stop the tears from welling in her eyes. Maybe she’s been wrong along. Maybe this really is just what he’d asked for: pure physical satisfaction. Maybe she’s the fool who threw her heart into the mix when it never really belonged. 

* * *

**July 15th**

_Are you busy tonight? I leave for a two week trip tomorrow. I’d like to see you. As always, the Floo is open. - D_

Hermione has already kind of committed to going to the Leaky with all of her old friends, but she could back out. Sinking too far into her own head, she thinks she could get out of it to spend the evening with Draco, but she wonders how that would seem. He’s consistently put her off and made little effort on his own part to rearrange his schedule for her, so why should she rearrange hers for him?

The doubts that have plagued her mind for the better part of a month rear their ugly head again. He wants her sometimes, when it’s convenient, but she wants him all the time. Her perception of the shift in their dynamic months before could have been off. 

She could have read the signs wrong. 

Maybe she’s just a shag to him. 

Maybe that’s all this ever was. 

Well into her twenties, Hermione doesn’t think that’s what she needs anymore. Holding out hope for this tenuous future that he’s never once mentioned or even hinted towards seems silly. The weeks between now and their last encounter have given her space and time to think about all the ways this is wrong. And that niggling voice in the back of her brain adds, _it’s never been right._

But she knows that’s a lie. For something that reads so wrong when written down in black and white, it has always felt right. But what if...?

_Sorry. Can’t tonight. Going out with some old friends. The next few weeks are packed, too. I’ll see you at the start of school. Take care. - H_

She doesn’t know if she’s making the right or wrong decision, but at least she’s come to a conclusion that’s been staring her in the face for far too long. If he can’t make the time for her, she shouldn’t be at his beck and call either. 

It was always just sex. Just shagging, nothing more. Purely physical.

Repeating it over and over still doesn’t make her feel any better.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part 3**

* * *

**October 18th**

The school year is in full swing and it takes everything inside of him to not seek her out in every crowd. Hermione is the one who sent him that final owl and he wants to respect her decision. He’s bad for her anyway, and he figures it’s better to accept that now rather than years down the line when they would’ve eventually sputtered out.

He’s always been her shameful secret and he can’t even say it’s unexpected for her to cut him off abruptly.

Judging by how close she’s gotten to the newest Care of Magical Creatures Professor, none other than one the elder Weasley boys who has been absent in all of his memories of the clan, she wants something different. He hears the students whisper about how ‘cute’ they are together and he has to make a conscious effort not to gag at the thought alone.

Charlie Weasley has become the bane of his existence this school year, but Hermione seems all too happy to have him around. The fact that Draco even has to look at them laughing and smiling like they’re sharing some inside joke sickens him. 

“She seems really happy, doesn’t she?” Leaning over, even Neville, who’s been known to be oblivious at best, has apparently noticed them, too. 

“Fraternizing with coworkers is repulsive.” It’s a little loud and more than a little harsh judging by the way Neville’s brows creep up to his hairline, but Draco has no patience for the burgeoning couple, and he certainly doesn’t want to spend his dinner even thinking about them, much less talking about them. “Granger can do whatever she likes but I wish she wouldn’t put her desperation on display in front of the whole student body.”

That’s a little unfair, but life isn’t fair. 

“Sorry, mate, didn’t realize I’d hit a nerve.”

Draco turns so fast he’s surprised his neck doesn’t crack as he narrows his eyes. “You certainly haven’t hit a bloody nerve, Longbottom. I just think her wanton displays are inappropriate in front of the entire student body.”

* * *

**November 17th**

Both Hermione and Charlie are in the Gryffindor stands out at the Quidditch pitch when he sees it. Charlie leans down and presses a kiss to her cheek while one of the players wrapped in crimson and gold grabs the snitch and ends the game. As the coach, Draco should be watching the field, but that same blush he’d thought was once reserved for only him stains her cheeks so deeply that he can see it clearly from the field. 

He stalks off the pitch in a fit of rage. To anyone else, it would appear he was cross with the outcome of the game, but the thought doesn’t even cross his mind as the soles of his shoes snap across the corridor’s stone floor.

Later that night, his room is in shambles and he’s thankful he’d had the foresight to put up a sound barrier on his dorm. If anyone had heard his roar of anger, they might’ve thought him a werewolf, changing under the full moon. 

* * *

**November 19th**

“Go away, Granger.” Draco doesn’t even lift his eyes from the messy stacks of parchment littering his desk. 

“But Draco, I—”

“I said go _away.”_ He can’t hide the ire in his tone and he doesn’t care to see her response. 

Spinning his quill between two fingers, he returns to the haphazard essay attempts and makes the page bleed with red lines. 

* * *

**November 24th**

It makes sense, really. She’d been with a Weasley before, why wouldn’t another fit her bill for a potential suitor. He still doesn’t actually know if they’re together, but they’re cosy enough to leave room for little doubt. 

It was a pointless dream, anyway, to even hope to have some kind of hold on the Golden Girl’s heart. She is, and always has been, far too good for a man with his stained past. What would she have even told her friends? Probably nothing at all. He was simply her outlet, and now that she’s done exercising her stress with some portions of his anatomy, she’s tossed him aside like the trash that he truly is. 

He misses her though. He can’t help that. But she clearly doesn’t miss him.

Firewhisky swirls in his highball glass and he tips it back and sucks it all down in one sip. The burn of alcohol is a feeling he’s grown to love. It stings in the most delicious way and numbs the edges of his frayed nerves, lulling him into a sleepless slumber most nights. When he dreams, they’re filled with chestnut curls and soft sighs that he can still feel seeping into his skin. And he’s ready to forget. 

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

Hoping it’s not a student, Draco makes his way to the door, pulling it open just a crack to reveal a mass of riotous curls and wide brown eyes on the other side. 

“Will you let me in?” She sounds meek, timid, and it feels so out of character that he furrows his brows and pulls the door open the rest of the way. 

Leaning against the door the second it shuts, Hermione keeps a safe distance. He’d laugh if it was even the slightest bit funny. She used to come so close there wasn’t a breath of space between them and now she stays as far away as possible. “I was hoping we could talk.”

Draco needs his trusty drink to have any kind of conversation with her right now. The cushion is still warm when he sinks down into it and throws his arm over the back of the couch. He has to take a long draw of the amber liquor before he can even answer her. “I’m not sure there’s anything left to say, Granger, but you’ve clearly come down to the dungeons for some reason, so you might as well sit. Drink?”

“No thanks.” With a small shake of her head, she inches towards the free cushion next to him and he thinks she looks almost scared. Something’s certainly off with her tonight but it isn’t his place to pry. Truthfully, it isn’t even his place to care anymore—maybe it never really had been. Her palms press the pleats of her skirt flat when she sits and he knows it’s a nervous tick she probably isn’t even aware of. “Draco, I—” 

When she takes a deep breath and shakes her head, turning towards him on the couch, he feels like he has to prompt her to continue. “Go on.” The whisky in the glass sloshes up the side as he gestures for her to do just that. 

“I can tell you’re mad at me and I just wanted to clear the air.” Tentatively lifting her eyes to his, she seems to consider her next statement. “We’ll be working together for the foreseeable future and I just wanted to make sure we were… I don’t know… I guess I just wanted to make sure we were okay.”

“We’re fine, Granger.” Though it’s clearly a lie, he doesn’t want to have this conversation with her. Not tonight. Truthfully, not ever. If she wants to shag a damn dragon tamer and pop out a litter of redheads in an already overpopulated family tree, so be it. He wants no part in that. “If that’s all you came to tell me, you can leave now. I have plenty of essays to grade and only so many hours left in the night.”

“Oh.” She’s looking at her lap again, twisting the edge of her skirt between her fingers and with each little bit exposed, the edge of his anger grinds down a little smoother. “This summer we—”

“Save it. I’m perfectly aware of when you decided to end our little arrangement and you’re free to do as you please.”

Nodding, she stays quiet for a beat too long. “You know what? No.” There’s a fire in her eyes, a passion he hasn’t seen in so long it almost looks foreign. “Draco, I didn’t want things to turn out like this. Hell, this summer, I wanted to see you, but you never made time for me, and when I was available, you were nowhere to be found. I knew what this was going in, and it scratched that itch when I had it, but frankly I’m too old to be entertaining the idea of friends with benefits. I want a future. One day I want kids and a husband who makes me a priority. I want—”

It’s as though all of her words were crammed into her throat, too packed together for one to even squeak by. Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving and he can’t take another moment of the silence that’s stretching between them. “You want what, Granger? Spit it out.”

“Nevermind. This is clearly going nowhere. I just wanted to let you know that I know we’ll be around one another for years to come if you stay on here, because I have no intention of leaving and I wanted to clear the air. I can see we both made a good decision to end this. Have a nice night.”

She’s nearly to the door when he finally speaks up. _“We_ didn’t make any decision. _You_ made the decision, and I'm doing my best to respect that, Hermione.” 

He knows using her given name means something. The only other times he’s ever dared to smooth the clumsy syllables as he spoke were between the sheets, sunk into her panting form, and she seems to know it, too. Her hand is poised on the doorknob, frozen in place as he considers how to phrase his next statement. 

Even with it poised and formed at the tip of his tongue, he can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t bring himself to scratch open that wound again and feel the raw sting of her rejection. At least when she’d ended things it had been through a letter. To risk her repeating it to his face is something he’s not fit to deal with in his current state. Instead, he clears his throat and downs the rest of his drink before slapping it down onto the table with a crack, staring at the ring it left on the wooden top. 

“What’s done is done. I have no interest in sorting through our past ever again so carry on with your other pursuits. You won’t hear a word from me.”

Long after the door slams shut and the echo of her footsteps fades, his eyes remain trained on the watery ring on the top of the table.

* * *

**November 27th**

For being the Brightest Witch of her Age, though she truly hates the title, Hemione Granger feels rather daft for falling for Draco Malfoy. She’d thought herself in love with him, and even imagined he’d felt the same, but clearly it was a miscalculation. He wrote her off like she meant nothing—like they meant nothing—and actions have always spoken far louder than any words in her experience. If she interprets his actions the other night, he’s done with her. The cryptic use of ‘her other pursuits’ still bothers her, though. She isn’t pursuing anything right now beyond healing her own broken heart. 

Most nights she’s buried in stacks of parchment and revising her lessons to reflect what she’s covered that day in an effort to avoid focusing on her own feelings. Months later, it still hurts. The wound still feels as fresh and raw as it had the last night she’d seen his owl at her window. 

But she’d made her choice then and she’s trying her best to stick by it now.

It’s hard, though, to remain committed to avoiding him and resist the urge to run down to the dungeons and say everything in the only way they seem to know how. She wants her body to speak the volumes her words can’t adequately explain. Her limbs know him better than her mind ever has and she knows if she were to start that conversation with her lips pressed against his, his response would say the things she’d fooled herself into believing for too long.

But reading too much into it all was her downfall. 

Sometimes shagging is just shagging and snogging is just that. 

Sometimes there aren’t deeper meanings to things like sex. 

Sometimes her heart cracks a little more when she lets herself believe it. 

She’s torn between wanting to ask if she ever meant anything more than a warm body for him to sink his prick into and thinking she could never ask that question because she’s too afraid of the answer. 

* * *

**December 8th**

Charlie is nice in that familiar way that makes her feel warm and fuzzy. Objectively, he’s handsome, and though Hermione has never really mastered the art of flirting, she’s pretty sure that’s what he’s been doing lately. He leans a little closer and smiles a little wider when they talk at the table in the Great Hall. His hand sometimes lands on her lower back and his lips sometimes caress the high of her cheek in parting, but she has no interest in pursuing anything more than friendship with the man. 

It would be easy to slip into a relationship with Charlie. She thinks if she hadn’t fallen so hard and fast for the snarky blond at the other end of the table, she might have once given him a chance. She already knows his family, and he’s a nice wizard, a wizard with a big heart permanently plastered on his sleeve. 

But she’s not the same witch she once was and nothing short of the passion she’s now known within the quiet confines of her room will ever suffice again. 

When he asks her to Hogsmeade, she agrees. Showing up with Neville at the front of the castle, she watches his face fall, but other than that tiny slip, he belays no other hesitation, and she hopes that it conveys the message she just doesn’t have the heart to speak aloud. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

* * *

**February 14th**

Draco gets a sick sense of self satisfaction when Hermione arrives at the annual Valentine’s dance alone. He thinks if they’d been seriously involved for so many months know, Charlie would be on her arm. Instead, he’s across the room, laughing with one of his students in that boisterous way only a Weasley ever could. 

Beautiful as ever, though he doesn’t remember saying it often enough, Hermione mans the drink table for the second year in a row. 

His feet carry him across the room before he even makes up his mind to talk to her. He’s never really been able to articulate his feelings well in the heat of the moment, or at all, if he’s being truly honest. It’s taken him months for his own thoughts to settle into a semblance of reason. First he’d been hurt, then mad when he saw her with the newest professor, but lately that anger has simmered into a strange kind of sadness.

He misses her. 

He knows that now. 

But he misses more than just the way their bodies spoke to one another. In fact, he misses the small things most of all. The way she laughs when she finds something truly funny, as though her body can’t contain the breadth of her amusement. The way she used to shoot him that sly smile in crowded halls, as though the curl of her lip could be for anything, but he always knew better. The way her voice rises with each passing word as she speaks about a topic that truly means something to her. 

More than any of that, he misses the whispered words between the sheets when they weren’t doing anything other than basking in the afterglow. He misses talking about the ghosts of his past and he misses the way she used to say that it would all be okay. Because nothing feels okay anymore and the glow of her presence when she used to warm more than just his body has left a cold, lonely emptiness in its wake.

A letter sits snug in the breast pocket of his coat but he’s still not sure if he’ll give it to her. He’d agonized over every perfectly penned word. A mountain of false starts still sits in the rubbish bin in his dorm, but the clean, final copy is with him tonight. 

“Tell me the budget allowed for something other than that pathetic excuse for a drink I had to suffer through last year.” 

Because he’s looking right at her when she spins to face him, he catches the way her eyes widen. She seems shocked he’s actually talking to her, and he accepts that it’s his fault. He’d told her he wouldn’t, after all, and last year he’d been sneaky, sly, trying to keep their ties under wraps, but it’s a new year once again, and Draco is done acting any sort of way or caring what anyone thinks. The only judgement that matters right now is hers, and if she chooses to ignore him and walk away again, he’ll have to accept that. But he won’t go down without a fight. Not this time.

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck on that one. Though I’m not sure it’s a budgetary concern. I think the students just like it.” She shrugs, unaffected by his presence and he hopes it’s a feigned sense of nonchalance. 

“Well, no one ever said they have taste.” 

The tinkle of her laughter is like balm to his buzzing nerves. It washes over him as her smile curls between her cheeks. “Fair enough.” 

Despite his criticism of the festive drink, he sips it slowly, drawing out as much time as possible. The hall is loud and crowded again, students flitting about all over the place, but he feels calmer than he has in months. “You’d think the Golden Girl would have something better to do than serve drinks to the lowly students on a night like this.” It’s not all that sneaky but the letter weighs heavily inside of his coat and he can’t bring himself to care if he’s being a touch transparent. 

“I volunteered.” Shrugging, she sips on her own drink and neither of them speak for a solid minute. 

Draco is not a brave man, and putting himself out there on the precipice of something he’s sure will end in disaster is not something he cares to do. But he will. For her, he will. “I thought you might’ve danced with the dragon tamer or another suitor this evening. Imagine my surprise to see you alone by the table for the second year in a row.”

“Third,” she corrects, carefully setting her drink down before she takes a step around the table to lean next to him. 

“Pardon?”

“It’s my third year. You weren’t here the year before to see it, but I’ve successfully kept potions and various types of liquor out of the punch bowl for three full years.”

“Hm. Maybe they should give you a medal for that, too.” He has to bite his cheek to keep the smile threatening to split his cheeks at bay. 

Shaking her head, Hermione draws another step closer. “Should they?” She laughs again and his smile slips into place. “I’ll have to bring it up to the Headmistress. Maybe they’ll name the table in my honour, too.”

“That would certainly be a nice touch.” His hand lands on the table between them and he leans ever so slightly closer. It’s been so long since they’ve been this close and his body yearns for the warmth of her glow. “Anyway, I am about to leave. I can only take so many dancing cupids badgering me with their sickening songs in one night.” She laughs once more, and he thinks it just might be the right time for what he’s about to say next. 

As his hand inches beneath the lapel of his coat, his heart kicks into overdrive, thumping so loud he’s sure she would hear it if the music wasn’t already deafening. “But I wanted to give you this before I left.” He almost adds an addendum because he wants to know her thoughts on the pages of confessions he can’t bring himself to speak aloud, but he holds back, handing over the letter in one smooth motion.

“Oh.” He expected her surprise, but the fact that she’s still smiling when she takes it seems like a bonus he wouldn’t have dared to hope for. “Thank you… I think? What exactly is this?”

She’s always been curious, so the question doesn’t catch him off guard. “Just something I thought you might like to read. Have a good night.”

* * *

**February 14th**

_Knock. Knock. Knock._

There’s no drink in his hands tonight so opening the door is easy. Rather than using his wand like normal though, he walks the few steps to his door to open it. Any outlet for his nervous energy is welcome and he’s been pacing the same stretch of space for what feels like hours. 

For all the words he poured on the pages, he doesn’t have a single one to welcome Hermione to his room. 

“Mind if I come in?”

He finds his voice enough to say, “Not at all.”

They settle onto the same cushions they occupied during the half-had conversation a few months before, but this time she’s a little closer and the pesky hope that her presence might mean something batters his brain. 

Opening her mouth just to close it again, she repeats the process a few times before she simply looks up at him. Words have never really been their strong suit, after all, so when she leans forward and presses her lips to his, he thinks he knows what it all means. 

It feels like coming home. Slotting together again, his lips remember the swell of her own and his hands remember the curve of her waist as he pulls her closer. Tangling tongues and hurried breaths sucked in spurts between searing kisses say all that he needs to know tonight. 

A long while later, with her curled into his side and her lips swollen and pink, he finally peels his mouth from hers. They should talk. Really. He said plenty in his letter but she has yet to speak a word. 

There’s only one phrase that seems to fit the moment. “I’m sorry about everything,” he says.

“Me too.”

“You have nothing to apologize for, I—”

“I mean it. I’m sorry, Draco, I never knew what you were thinking and when I tried to puzzle it all out—”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more clear with my affection. It’s plain to me now that I never properly conveyed my feelings for fear of the reception. I apologize for—”

“Shhhh…” Her fingers press against his lips for a second and the same stain on her cheeks that he’s so sorely missed returns. “It’s okay, you know? I think the time apart served its purpose. At the time, I was a jumbled mess of mixed emotions, and the space has given me room to think about it all.”

A beat passes, then two, and he tries to summon even an ounce of her Gryffindor bravery to ask his next question. “And now… What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking…” A wicked smile twists the edges of her lips as she leans closer. “I’d like to see this through.”

Relief like he’s never known before washes over him as he captures her mouth in a kiss. It’s slow and sweet, dragging on for minutes on end as he savours every second of the moment. “I’ve missed you,” he breathes, and she kisses him harder in response.

After well over a year of half-had conversations and words bubbling up just to be tamped down seconds later, Draco finally thinks he’s cracked her code. Conversations may not be their strong suit, but he can read between the lines as his hands curl into her hips and her leg swings over his lap. 

* * *

**February 15th**

A sense of quiet permeates Draco’s quarters as the glow of the sun streaks soft rays through the Great Lake outside his window. Silence has been a burden he’s had trouble bearing in the past, but now, with her sleepy, sated form wrapped around his own, he thinks it may not be so bad. 

It’s in quiet moments of contemplation like these that he gets the chance to process his feelings about the previous night. It went better than he could have ever hoped; his letter must have said enough in her eyes to warrant her forgiveness. But he’s selfish and refuses to question his good fortune in the matter. 

Tightening around his waist, her arm wiggles just a little, and he knows she’s slowly edging into the day. Her eyes flutter open and he’s stuck, for the millionth time, by just how beautiful she looks in these moments, when it’s just the two of them and everything else that may stand in their way is inconsequential.

“Good morning,” he whispers, brushing tangled curls back from her forehead. They’ve done this enough times for him to know that if his fingers get caught in the mess, it’ll pinch and pull at her scalp, and she looks too peaceful for that. 

A mumbled greeting rumbles against his chest as she burrows farther into him, apparently not ready for the day to start just yet. “It’s so _early.”_

He can’t help but laugh. “Sleep well?”

Humming in response, she finally lifts her head to look at him again. “Better than I have in a long time.”

Torn between wanting to kiss her right then and responding, he forms the vulnerable words first. “Me, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> All of my alpha love to my wonderfully talented friends [@msmerlin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/msmerlin/pseuds/msmerlin) and [@mcal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcal/pseuds/mcal). They're both amazing authors and you should check out their works! Thanks as well [@torigingerfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigingerfox/pseuds/torigingerfox) for reading this over ahead of time, too.
> 
> Additional thanks to my lovely beta, [@pacificrimbaud](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pacificrimbaud/pseuds/pacificrimbaud) who polished up this little piece. If you haven't read her works, you're definitely missing out!
> 
> Come find me on tumblr [@dreamsofdramione](https://dreamsofdramione.tumblr.com)!
> 
> THANK YOU ALL for reading! Comments & kudos **always appreciated!**


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